


the weight of living

by spaceburgers



Series: birthright [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Fire Emblem Fates: Birthright Spoilers, Hoshido | Birthright Route, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceburgers/pseuds/spaceburgers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Xander meets him is in his father’s throne room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the weight of living

**Author's Note:**

> companion fic to [i hear you calling in the dead of night](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6912928). it is not necessary to have read that fic to understand this one, but i highly recommend you do so for maximum pain--i mean, enjoyment
> 
> again, major birthright spoilers. also spoilers for the xander/laslow support conversations.
> 
> title from weight of living, pt ii by bastille

The first time Xander meets him is in his father’s throne room. Court is in session. Xander sees the faces of the councilmen, seated around the room, their faces blank. King Garon is on his throne, slouching almost arrogantly against gold and silver. A stranger kneels on the floor, his head bowed so that Xander cannot see his face when he walks in, only ash brown hair and the curve of his back, the silver sword sheathed at his hip and gloved hands pressed against marble tiles.

“Father,” Xander says.

Garon looks up at him, his face impassive.

“Rise,” he says.

The stranger stands, slowly, turns to look at Xander, and it is only then that Xander finally sees his face—the lines of his jaw, the elegant curve of his lips, bright hazel eyes that regard him with curiosity. The man is, objectively, quite attractive, and his slender built and the gentleness of his features would suggest that he has never been in a fight in his life. The sword and the outfit and the way he carries himself, both calm and guarded at the same time, say otherwise.

Xander walks to him, and the stranger falls to his knees again, bowing deeply.

“Lord Xander,” he says. There is a slight lilt to his voice, an accent Xander cannot quite place. His voice is smooth like honey and drips with unsaid promise.

“What is your name, stranger?” Xander asks.

“My name,” the stranger says, “is Laslow.”

 _Laslow._ It is not a name common in Nohr, or indeed in any of the territories that surround the kingdom.

“And where are you from, Laslow?”

There is a flicker of hesitation. Xander sees it, the way his lips part ever so slightly, the beat of silence that passes before he answers.

“From far away, milord,” Laslow says.

Xander raises an eyebrow at the answer. He turns to his father, but Garon seems perfectly undisturbed by the stranger’s evasiveness. Xander looks at him, asks, “Why have you summoned me here, father?”

“I am appointing Laslow,” Garon says, “to be your new retainer.”

Xander’s eyes widen. He hears the whispers of the councilmen, hears snatches of the words _what on earth is he thinking_ and _that boy couldn’t last a minute in a real fight_ and _we don’t even know where he’s from._ He looks up at Garon, but he merely regards Xander with a cool look, impossible to read.

“With all due respect, father,” Xander says, his words very careful. “I have some doubts about this man’s qualifications.”

There is a stony silence. Garon shifts on his throne; the whispers of the councilmen intensify.

Finally:

“You’re right, my son.”

More whispers.

“It is of the utmost importance that a liege has full trust in the competency of his retainer.”

“Thank you, father,” Xander begins, relieved, but Garon raises a hand and the court falls silent at once.

“Which is why,” Garon continues, “I propose a duel.”

“ _Father_ ,” Xander says again.

“You have your sword, do you not? And it seems that Laslow has his weapon on hand as well.”

“Are we to fight right now?” Xander asks. “Here, in your throne room?”

“You dare question me?” Garon demands, and Xander instinctively takes a step back. He dips his head, keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

“No, father,” he replies.

“Good,” Garon says. “Now, you will begin.”

And so Xander walks to the middle of the throne room, weapon in hand, and looks at Laslow. Laslow, who has his hand gripped around his own sword, who looks back at Xander and, inexplicably, _smiles._

“Would it be a stretch if I asked you to go easy on me, Lord Xander?” he asks, just quiet enough not to be heard by the rest of the court. “I _am_ in desperate need of employment.”

Xander stares at him for a long moment. He can’t remember the last time he was rendered speechless like this.

“Ten paces,” he says at last.

Laslow’s expression changes immediately, grows steely, determined. He raises his sword, turns around, and Xander does the same, counts the steps off in his head, _one, two three, four five—_

He is aware, dimly, that his father is watching. He realizes, suddenly, that this will be the first time his father will have watched him fight since he was but a young teenager.

_Six, seven, eight, nine._

Garon’s gaze on him, sharp and piercing. The Nohrian court, gathered around him, here to judge his worthiness as an heir. His grip on his sword tightens, almost imperceptibly.

_Ten._

He turns around, but Laslow is even quicker, and he’s charging towards him, wielding his sword at an angle that is deliberately deadly, and in an instant Xander knows that Laslow isn’t holding back at all. Their swords clash, and clash, and clash again, and Laslow is still smirking at him, and Xander thinks, _I’ve got you all wrong, haven’t I?_

The mood has shifted; Xander feels, acutely, the risk of challenge, the exhilaration of sport, and he grins, and Laslow eyes widen. He fumbles with his sword, barely even a second, so quick that none of the other councilmen probably even notice. But Xander does. Xander sees it, and he thinks, _oh_.

But he doesn’t have the luxury of examining that thought right now. He pushes it to the back of his mind, focuses instead on the dig of his fingers into the hilt of his sword, of Laslow’s movements, fast and unpredictable and almost graceful, more of a dancer than a fighter. His technique is flawless. His style is unlike anything Xander has ever seen before, and he’s not sure if it is a product of the foreign land Laslow is from or if it is simply because of who he is as a person.

Xander is losing the fight. Laslow is pushing him back, and Xander is merely defending by this point. Laslow is _playing_ with him, he realizes, unnecessarily showy movements meant solely to confuse an opponent, to awe an audience.

But his father is watching him fight. He cannot afford to lose.

Laslow is careless. Xander sees an opening, turns suddenly to strike. Laslow’s eyes widen, and he dodges just in time, but the rhythm of the fight has changed, and now Xander is the one with the upper hand. He advances, and Laslow retreats, and before long he has Laslow on his back on the floor, Siegfried pointed precisely at Laslow’s throat while Laslow looks up at him and smiles.

He can barely hear the announcement of his win over the shortness of his own breath. Underneath him, Laslow’s chest is heaving as well. Sweat is matted in his hair, the front of his shirt soaked with it, and yet there’s still _something_ about him, some strange quality that still makes him look like he’s glowing from the inside out.

Abruptly, he realizes he’s been staring. He turns away, stands in front of his father’s throne and kneels.

“Are you satisfied with the caliber of your retainer?” Garon asks.

Xander looks up.

 _This is a very bad idea_ , he thinks, remembering the way Laslow’s lips curved into a playful smile.

“Yes,” he says instead, and Garon nods.

“Then rise, my son,” he commands, and Xander does, stands up, turns around. Laslow is there, kneeling on the floor behind him.

“Milord,” he begins.

“Stand,” Xander commands.

Laslow rises. Xander extends a hand, and Laslow looks at it for a long moment before taking it in his own.

“From today forth,” Xander says, his voice booming, their hands still clasped together, “you will swear to serve me as a royal retainer, pledging your loyalty to your liege and to the kingdom of Nohr.”

They look at each other for a long moment; then the moment passes, and Laslow drops his hand, goes back to kneel on the floor.

“I swear,” Laslow says. He lifts his head, looks up at Xander through his lashes, and Xander sucks in a breath.

“Good,” Garon says. “Now it’s settled.”

-

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but certainly not this.

Laslow hits it off with the other royal guards. He has brought with him friends from that same strange land (both now retainers as well), but he makes new ones as effortlessly as breathing. He spends plenty of time in the nearby towns, returns late at night with his purse considerably lighter than before he left. He is a flirt and a womanizer and acts in a manner that is entirely unbefitting of the court.

But—there is always a but. But he is a good retainer, loyal and faithful. He completes any task that Xander sets for him easily. He trains regularly, with Odin and Selena, at times with Xander himself. He gets along well with Peri when Xander recruits her as his second retainer in spite of her rather eccentric nature. He is a fine conversationalist, notoriously tight-lipped about his past but otherwise surprisingly knowledgeable about a wide range of topics: art, culture, politics.

He learns how to make tea according to Xander’s preferences, dutifully brings him a cup even when Xander does not explicitly ask for it. When Garon sends Xander out to deal with uprisings and rebellions Laslow is always there, puts his skills to good use as he fights alongside Xander and Peri, an unstoppable force even in the face of the most well-organized of resistance armies. And then afterwards, after all is done and the battle is won, Laslow always turns to Xander and smiles, and even though he is bleeding and wounded and his hair and clothes and sword are stained with dirt and dried blood, Xander always takes a second too long to look away again.

It’s dangerous. It’s dangerous, because Xander is the crown prince of Nohr, the heir to the throne. It’s dangerous because he doesn’t even know who Laslow really is, even after they’ve fought a countless number of battles side by side. It’s dangerous because if his father, if the council found out, if _anyone_ at all found out, the repercussions of it would be—

But it’s hard to think about all that when the sky is dark, stars cold and bright next to a full moon, when Xander is at his desk bent over a letter from the king of an allied kingdom, his gaze unfocused as the words blur in front of him, when there is a knock on his door and suddenly Laslow is there, a cup of hot tea balanced carefully on top of a silver tray, when he says, his voice very quiet, “Milord?”

Xander squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again Laslow has shut the door behind him, moves forward to set the cup of tea gently on the desk. This close, Xander can get a good look at Laslow’s face, the softness of his features, his lips turned downwards into a worried frown. Even in the darkness of his room his eyes are so very bright, and he is so beautiful it leaves Xander almost breathless.

“You work too hard, Lord Xander,” Laslow says. Xander smiles, pushes the letter across the table, reaches for the cup to take a sip, and of course it’s perfect.

“Such a work ethic is only befitting of a prince,” Xander replies. Laslow’s frown deepens.

“Forgive me if I am overstepping my boundaries,” he says, “but your status as a prince truly does not justify your disregard for your own health.”

Xander laughs.

“How, then, should I justify it?” he asks.

“Milord,” Laslow begins, but Xander lifts a hand, cuts him off.

“You’ve said your piece, Laslow,” he says. “I appreciate your concern, but I’d like to be left alone.”

The dismissal is clear. Laslow bites his lip, as if he’s physically stopping himself from saying whatever it is that’s on his mind. Eventually he shakes himself, bows, and says, “In that case, I’ll be taking my leave.”

Xander waves him off, fixes his eyes back on the letter. Only when he hears Laslow close the door behind him does he let himself press a hand to his forehead and sigh deeply.

-

And then the unthinkable happens.

“ _We’re_ your family,” Xander says. He keeps his voice firm. Commanding. Not pleading, never pleading, even though he can see, in his peripheral vision, Elise, small and frightened; Leo’s wide eyes; Camilla’s pale face. He looks at Corrin, and Corrin looks at him.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells him. “Big brother.”

And she turns and walks away.

-

So Nohr and Hoshido are officially at war.

Grief settles deep in Xander’s gut. It settles in everyone, and they all respond differently. He sees Leo spend countless late nights holed up in the library, sees him in the training grounds holding Brynhildr so tightly that his knuckles go white. He sees Camilla withdraw into herself, listless and tired, barely eats, barely goes outside. He sees Elise still hope with that simple childlike wonder of hers, tell herself resolutely that Corrin will come back for her, for them. He does not have it in himself to tell her that all her hoping is pointless. A child’s wistful fantasy. Nothing more.

And Xander—Xander has no time for any frivolities. They are at war; he is the crown prince of Nohr. He knows the Hoshidan forces led by Corrin are coming for the capital, that they will not stop until they have captured the castle, torn down this kingdom with their own bare hands. Xander has to strengthen their defenses, oversee the training of their troops, secure the outlying cities, quell any rebellion forces; the list goes on and on and on, and it feels like each new day seems to bring an entirely new problem. He goes to bed exhausted each night.

Laslow continues to bring him tea, dutiful and devoted as always. If he sees the bags under Xander’s eyes, sees the way Xander’s begun working himself to the ground, he doesn’t say anything about it at all.

-

It is late at night. The moon hangs low in the sky, just the slightest sliver of a perfect crescent in an otherwise black night. There are no stars tonight.

The light in his room is low, the oil lamps beginning to burn out. He has no idea what time it is; how long has it been since he last slept? There is a dull headache pounding at his temples but he ignores it, focuses his attention instead on the map splayed out on the desk in front of him, taps his fingers against yellowing parchment, marks the places Corrin’s forces have travelled thus far in red ink, asks himself, _where will she go next? What is her plan? How can she be stopped?_

A sound from the direction of the doorway startles him. He looks up, and Laslow is there, making his way into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“You’ve already served me,” Xander says, looking back down at his papers, gesturing to the empty cup on the edge of his desk. “You’ve been dismissed for the day.”

“No,” Laslow says. “No, I haven’t.”

There is something about the timber of his voice that makes Xander look up again. Laslow’s face is half-cast in shadow, the other half with its ridges and corners illuminated by the dying embers of an oil lamp. He is beautiful, has always been beautiful, and in that moment Xander forgets about all the reasons why he cannot allow himself to have him, forgets about the war and about Corrin and about the circlet that weighs his head down, instead lets his world narrow down to the almost overwhelming ache in his chest when he thinks about just how much he _wants_ Laslow, wants him in every single way that he can possibly get, Laslow looking at him, smiling at him, touching him—

Laslow crosses the room, stands in front of Xander, his expression indecipherable. His hand reaches up, presses the pads of his fingers to the curve of Xander’s jaw.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, “if I am overstepping my boundaries.”

And then he leans in and kisses him, and Xander’s breath stutters to a halt.

For a moment, his mind is perfectly blank. He can feel Laslow’s breath, hot against his lips, gentle fingers against his cheek. He feels rather than sees the way Laslow maneuvers himself onto Xander’s chair, straddles Xander’s lap, his thighs bracketing Xander’s hips. When Xander lowers his hands and settles them against the small of Laslow’s back, it feels almost as if he’s watching all of it happen from outside his own body; but then Laslow _whimpers_ against Xander’s mouth, and the unexpected noise is like an electric shock straight to his system, everything coming back to him all at once. He suddenly finds himself hyper-alert: the rustle of fabric beneath his hands, Laslow’s hair tickling his face, the sounds of their uneven breathing in an otherwise silent room.

“Laslow,” he says. “Laslow, I—”

“Yes,” Laslow murmurs. He leans in, noses against the arch of Xander’s neck. “Yes,” he says again. “ _Yes_.”

Laslow presses close, and Xander can feel Laslow’s arousal pressed against his own stomach through layers of fabric. Desire thrums through his veins, sets his blood aflame. Laslow rocks his hips forward, and Xander hisses, slides his hand up into Laslow’s hair, pulls his head down so that he can whisper into Laslow’s ear, “I want to take you in my bed.”

Laslow groans wordlessly in response, and Xander moves his hands down to the backs of Laslow’s thighs, and in a flash of something almost akin to foolishness he stands and lifts Laslow up in one smooth motion. Laslow’s legs are wrapped around his waist, his arms wound tight around Xander’s neck, and suddenly they are kissing again, hot and hurried and messy, teeth clacking together inelegantly as Xander moves over to the bed, sets Laslow down onto the mattress, presses his hands into his sheets with Laslow finally, _finally_ splayed out underneath him.

“What do you want?” Xander asks, his face barely inches away from Laslow’s. This close, he can see the smoothness of Laslow’s skin, the curl of Laslow’s eyelashes, the redness of Laslow’s lips, and he feels it acutely like a punch to his chest.

“Everything,” Laslow breathes.

And so Xander sits up, pulls his shirt over his head, reaches over to help Laslow with the fastenings on his uniform. When Laslow finally gets his top off Xander takes a moment to run his hands over the expanse of pale skin, thumbs at one of Laslow’s nipples, files away the breathless noise that Laslow makes in response for later. They kiss again, long and leisurely this time, before Xander pulls away again to kicks his pants off, moves to divest Laslow of his own clothes.

He sits back on his heels, takes a moment to just stare, lets his eyes roam hungrily over the planes of Laslow’s body. Now that they’re here he can take this moment to fully grasp just how much he’s wanted this, ached for this: Laslow underneath him, soft and pliant and naked, flushed all the way down to his chest, looking up at Xander with raw, unbridled emotion. Xander dips his head, presses his lips to the junction between Laslow’s neck and shoulder, begins kissing his way down Laslow’s skin. Underneath him, Laslow inhales sharply, fists his hands in the sheets as Xander presses his mouth against Laslow’s chest, Laslow’s navel, Laslow’s hips.

When he pulls back to look Laslow already looks completely wrecked, mouth slack, breathing heavily, and Xander wants nothing more than to draw this out, explore every painstaking inch of Laslow’s body and learn every single one of his sensitive spots, figure out how to make Laslow moan like that with just a single touch—but Laslow is almost trembling underneath him by this point, and Xander’s so desperate that he doesn’t think he can wait any longer, so he lets his hands wander down even lower to Laslow’s entrance, and he’s surprised when he finds that Laslow’s already loose and pliant.

“You—” he starts to say, and Laslow looks up at him, grins even in spite of how wrecked he looks.

“Was that presumptuous of me?” Laslow asks. “I like to come prepared.”

He looks far too smug right now. Xander presses his fingers against Laslow’s entrance, and the look is wiped off his face immediately.

“ _Oh_ ,” Laslow breathes. “Oh, _please_ —”

“Oil,” Xander says, stupidly, and then stretches out to reach for his bedside cabinet, rummages through the drawers before he unearths a vial of oil that he hasn’t touched in far too long. He coats his fingers with it, liberally, carelessly, and when he pushes two of his fingers into Laslow they slide in easily. Laslow’s back bows underneath his hands, hands scrabbling at sheets, moaning incoherently as Xander drives into him, pushes deeper into that tight heat.

“Come on,” Laslow growls, impatient. “ _Come on_ , I’m ready, want to feel you inside of me—”

“So filthy,” Xander murmurs, pressing the thumb of his free hand against Laslow’s lips. Laslow locks eyes with Xander, darts his tongue out to lick at the pad of his finger. Xander’s eyes darken as he pushes his thumb into Laslow’s mouth, and Laslow doesn’t break eye contact at all when he wraps his lips around Xander’s finger and sucks.

In a second Xander has both his hands withdrawn. Laslow whimpers at the loss of contact, but Xander brushes his hand across Laslow’s cheek, soothing him.

“Do you still want this?” Xander asks, his voice very low. Laslow shoots him a look that is both exasperated and impossibly fond at the same time, and Xander’s heart squeezes almost painfully in his chest.

“Yes,” Laslow says, resolute, sure, his eyes very clear. “Always, always.”

Xander leans down to kiss him again, gentle, so gentle that the ache in his chest intensifies. He holds up Laslow’s legs, positions them so that they’re resting over his shoulders. Laslow’s hands are on his back, his shoulders, his hair, and when he pushes in he goes slow, conscious of the way Laslow shakes underneath him, focuses on the quiet gasp that leaves Laslow’s mouth, the way his fingernails dig into Xander’s skin, the tightening of his legs around Xander’s back.

“Relax,” Xander murmurs, giving Laslow time to adjust. Laslow looks up at him, sweat already matting in his hair, touches his fingers to the side of Xander’s face.

“I’m okay,” he says, smiling. “You can move.”

Xander mouths at Laslow’s neck again, laying a kiss over his pulse point, almost sweet in spite of the heaviness of this moment.

And then he starts to move, and Laslow throws his head back and _moans_.

It’s not slow and careful anymore. It’s Laslow’s legs thrown over Xander’s shoulders; it’s Laslow’s hands flying from touching the side of Xander’s face to clawing at the sheets, to raking down the muscles on Xander’s back. It’s Laslow, moaning and gasping and cursing, Xander’s name on his lips, Xander’s mouth against his skin; it’s Xander’s hands, gripping Laslow’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises there, black and purple against milky white skin. It’s Xander fucking him hard enough that the bed rattles beneath the both of them, hard enough that Laslow’s hands on Xander’s skin is the only thing keeping him grounded to reality.

“Xander,” Laslow gasps. “ _Xander_ , I’m close—”

Xander moves his hand between their bodies, wraps his fingers around Laslow’s cock and strokes.

“Then come,” Xander commands, twists his wrist just _so_ , and Laslow cries out and spills all over Xander’s hand, all over his own chest. Xander follows soon after, bites into Laslow’s shoulder and comes inside of him, shuddering with his release.

He stays suspended over Laslow for a moment, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Eventually he pulls out, presses a kiss against Laslow’s lips as an apology when he hisses at the sensation. He lies down next to Laslow, pulls him close, kisses him again all along his face, his jaw, his neck, feather-light touches that ghost over Laslow’s skin. He can feel it on his lips when Laslow shivers at his touch.

“You should clean yourself up,” Xander says. Laslow drops his gaze.

“Let me stay like this for just a while longer,” he says. “Please.”

Xander looks at him, at his usually pristine hair now a complete mess, spilling out over his pillow. He commits to memory the curve of Laslow’s nose, his lips, red and bruised, all the beautiful and wonderful parts that Xander now knows he’s allowed to touch.

“Yes,” Xander says. “As you wish, Laslow.”

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes in the morning, sunlight is already streaming through the gap in his curtains, and Laslow is gone.

-

And so it becomes a habit.

He is careful so that no one knows—makes sure that the guards do not overhear, that the servants do not interrupt. Laslow always leaves first thing in the morning, before the sun’s rays have even begun to shine, creeps out delicately with his hair neat as always and his clothes perfectly pristine.

In the day, they are civil and courteous. Laslow performs his duties perfectly without missing a beat. In the day Laslow trains with the other retainers, talks strategy with Xander, shares intelligent insights into military plans and defense strategies. (If Xander finds himself distracted whenever they’re together like this, if he finds himself watching whenever Laslow tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, if he has to take a moment to extricate himself from the thought of pressing his lips against the shell of Laslow’s ear right there and then in the middle of the day, he hopes that nobody else notices at all.)

In the day, they are polite, reserved. Never betraying the fact that come nightfall Xander will have Laslow flat on his back in bed, wrists pinned to the headboard by a sturdy grip as they rut against each other, Laslow muffling his cries against the side of Xander’s throat.

In the day, they are perfectly professional. A liege and his retainer. At night, they curl up together with silk sheets thrown over the both of them, Laslow’s hand on Xander’s face and Xander’s hand on Laslow’s back, and they talk, their voices hushed and intimate, oil lamps casting a soft orange glow over the room.

“Why can’t you tell me where you come from?” Xander asks. Laslow tenses, and Xander runs a hand over his side until he relaxes again.

“I apologize,” he says. “I don’t mean to pry into your past.”

“Then I apologize too,” Laslow replies. He shifts so that he can get a better look at Xander, their faces close enough that their noses bump into each other. “For having to keep this part of me from you.”

Xander kisses him, presses his lips against Laslow’s forehead.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Tell me something else instead. Tell me about your family.”

And so Laslow does, whispers stories about a beautiful dancer who fell in love with a soldier, who bore a child who inherited her grace and beauty, who inherited his father’s determination and strength. He tells Xander about the first time she taught him how to dance, how he’d tripped over his own legs in all his boyish awkwardness but decided to persist anyway. He tells Xander about the first time his father gave him a sword, held his hands and showed him the proper stances, the correct way to hold onto the hilt, how to swing and strike and cut, how to fight and defend.

Xander says, “My father taught me how to fight as well.”

Laslow must see something in Xander’s face. His expression shifts, and he puts his hands on Xander’s chest, pushes him down onto the sheets and straddles him.

“No more talk,” Laslow says. “The night is still young.”

“Yes,” Xander agrees easily, and then words fall away completely.       

-

He has been so very careful that they are not found out, and yet—

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, Xander,” Camilla says.

Xander turns around so quickly that it would be comical, if not for the way his heart plunges in his chest at Camilla’s words. She’s looking at him unsmilingly, her lips pursed, her arms folded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Lying to me already?” Camilla says. “You should know better than that by now.”

Xander looks away, his face burning with shame.

“How,” he says, weakly.

“I’m your sister,” Camilla replies. “Of course I know.”

Xander looks around, but the hallway is empty. King Garon is holding court right now, so all the nobles are there, all the guards posted near the throne room, all the servants occupied. Leo is in the library, and Elise is with her retainers.

He exhales.

“Xander,” she continues, her voice unflinchingly serious. “This isn’t like you. We’re at war right now; you can’t afford to get caught. Just imagine if father knew—”

“ _I know that_ ,” Xander spits, the words more vehement than he’d intended. The anger dissipates immediately when he sees the look on Camilla’s face, her eyes wide, her mouth half-open.

“I’m sorry,” Xander says. He dips his head, rubs at his temple with his hand. “I’m so sorry, Camilla, I don’t know what came over me—“

Camilla’s hand is on his face, her fingers smooth and gentle. She tilts his head up so that he’s looking at her; her eyes, he realizes with a jolt, are so very sad.

“You’re in love with him,” Camilla says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Aren’t you?”

Xander thinks he might have stopped breathing entirely.

Camilla looks at him, her hand moving to rest over her mouth.

“You didn’t know,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question. Xander isn’t looking at her, _can’t_ look at her.

“No,” he says at last.

There is a beat of silence; then Camilla steps forward, pulls him into her arms, lets his head fall forward onto her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Xander closes his eyes.

“So am I,” he says.

-

There is a war going on. Xander is the crown prince of Nohr. He has a duty to his kingdom, to the throne. He has a thousands different duties, thousands of troops to command, thousands of citizens to protect, thousands of homes to defend.

He is Xander, crown prince of Nohr, and they are at war, and he is in love with his retainer.

When the realization comes to him it’s obvious; now that the thought has taken root in his brain he can’t think of a single reason why it never occurred to him before. He thinks of waking up in the middle of the night to see Laslow’s sleeping face next to him, quiet and relaxed, the glow of the moon reflecting off the highest points of his face. He thinks of Laslow next to him in battle, hard and determined, wielding his sword like a natural extension of his body, the fluidity and grace of his movements, the look in his eyes when he cuts an enemy soldier down. He thinks of Laslow in bed, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, bruises and bite marks raising welts all over otherwise flawless skin. He thinks of Laslow afterwards, his thoughtful gaze and his careful words, the lines that appear at the corner of his eyes when he laughs, the way his eyes sparkle when he talks about his family. He thinks of Laslow looking at him, his gaze so unbearably soft, his gentle touch, his tender kisses.

He thinks: _I love him. I love him. I love him._

-

Later at night, when they are curled up together afterwards, when Laslow has his face pressed against Xander’s chest and Xander has his arm tucked securely against Laslow’s waist, Laslow looks at him and says, “Milord, I lo—”

Xander kisses him because he doesn’t know what else to do. Xander kisses him because he panics, and his brain short-circuits, and the only thing he can possibly do in that moment is to make Laslow stop talking, as if stopping the words before they leave Laslow’s mouth actually makes any difference at all. Xander kisses him because this was never meant to happen, because Xander was never meant to fall for Laslow, because Laslow was never meant to fall for Xander, because this was never part of the plan, because there is a _war_ going on, because there are rules and consequences and _god,_ Xander loves him, he loves him so much it makes him stupid, and this can’t possibly be happening, not to them, not like this.

Xander kisses him until they are both gasping. Laslow rests his cheek against Xander’s neck, his breaths fanning out over Xander’s skin.

They don’t speak at all after that.

-

Barely a week later, Corrin’s forces storm Castle Krakenburg.

“Don’t leave this room,” he says, his voice not wavering at all. He doesn’t look at Peri. He doesn’t look at Laslow at all.

-

Later, later, when the battle is over, when Elise is dead and he lies dying, he looks at Corrin and tells her, “I’m sorry.”

He wonders how Laslow and Peri are faring. He wonders how he should reprimand them for disobeying direct orders. He thinks: _as long as Corrin is alive. As long as Laslow is alive._

When he closes his eyes he imagines a world without princes or wars or thrones. He imagines a simple world, where he is just Xander, and Laslow is just Laslow, and everything between them is artless and joyful. He imagines meeting Laslow for the first time, not in the middle of a court, not under the heavy gaze of his father as they duel, but a simple chance meeting: on the street, in a store, imagines bumping into Laslow, saying _I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there_ , stuttering on his words when the stranger finally lifts his head and Xander catches a glimpse of his face.

He imagines Laslow saying _it’s okay_ , imagines Laslow looking up at him and smiling, soft and stunning.

He imagines saying: _my name is Xander. It’s a pleasure to meet you_.

He imagines Laslow replying: _the pleasure’s all mine._

As he lets sleep overtake him, he thinks of a better world, and he smiles.


End file.
